Bermuda's Triangle
by Kyra and Alex
Summary: SSHG WIP with HBP spoilers. Snape and Hermione's world goes through some giant changes. There are two of us writing this: double the pleasure, double the fun! We think the plot is pretty unique: check it out.
1. Chapter 1

Severus Snape stood very still atop the high hill. His perch overlooked smooth, gray Scottish countryside where war had raged openly and constantly since the battle at the Ministry. Mist tugged at his robes. The dementors' clinging emanation reminded him of his next assignment; stealing Lucius out of Azkaban so the Dark Lord could exact his revenge.

Grawp and Hagrid fought on, against the thundering giants, all of them oblivious to Snape's presence. It was six against two, ideal odds for the Dark Lord's side. Even better, Grawp was a runt, and Hagrid, though half-wizard and in possession of his ridiculous pink umbrella, had been a demoralized wreck since Dumbledore's death.

This was one of those moments, one of those crucial, character-defining moments. Snape was fully capable of drawing his wand, charging down the slope, and beating back the giants. It would take a great effort, especially since Hagrid had just fallen to the ground, knocked out or dead from a blow to the head, but Snape was capable. Grawp was alone, desperate and howling. There were no Death Eaters here to witness Snape's treachery.

_ROOOOARRR!_

Snape took a few startled steps back, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his robe as he pulled out his wand, and cast a series of protective, isolating, and purifying spells about himself.

A Nundu had just arrived, sleek and hulking, from below a slight hill and patch of trees. Snape had only ever seen them in books, and the photographers had always maintained a respectful distance. It was more than a kilometer away, but Snape could see the powerful cords of sinew and muscle moving in its great, leopard-like body. Snape was puzzled momentarily by the giant riding astride the beast. Giants were tough, admittedly, but none could withstand the toxins contained in one puff of Nundu breath, and this animal was panting heavily.

Then Snape saw the giants down below fumbling to stuff bezoars and pickled mandrakes into their cheeks. The all-purpose antidote and leafy restorative, combined with the giants' brute strength, would keep them alive. But since when did giants think ahead of time? And Snape had never known giants to show any knowledge of Potions ingredients. Grawp stumbled and fell. The Nundu bounded across the wide expanse of trampled undergrowth, just barely within the giant rider's control.

Snape took a few more steps backwards. The fetid stench of the Nundu's breath was seeping through his invisible spellwork, pulsing hotly. It would be suicidal to stay much longer.

The giant riding the Nundu, somehow managing to steer by yanking on the creature's ears, swayed a little as he reached the group that had been closing around Hagrid. He spoke to them, and the rest of the giants began to shift back and forth on their elephantine feet, in an unusual display of nerves and excitement. Snape felt nauseous. The rider pulled again on the Nundu's ear and went back the way he came. The other giants followed.

Snape disapparated.

He reappeared, coughing roughly. He would have to brew some sort of virus-fighting potion to counteract the Nundu breath that had taken hold in his lungs.

"What's wrong with you?"

Snape looked up at Draco. The pale boy was sitting on his narrow cot, in the room they shared in this stinking Muggle pit. "Nundu breath," Snape answered shortly.

Draco's eyes opened wide. "They have a Nundu?"

"We do, apparently."

Draco looked apprehensive. "I haven't heard anything about it. I'm supposed to deliver a message. _He_ wants you to visit the Prime Minister again, and then," Draco swallowed and lost even more color, "proceed with rescuing my father."

Snape scowled. "He'll keep your father alive, Draco. With Potter loose and continuing in Dumbledore's footsteps, he needs everyone."

Draco's face crumpled. "Alive," he said bitterly. "_Great_."

Snape sneered at the pathetic, sniveling mess and prepared to leave. "If the Dark Lord asks, the giants are still cooperating. Hagrid is finished."

This cheered Draco. "How did they do it?"

"The way giants normally do," Snape answered coldly, and vanished again, to reappear inside the office of the Muggle Prime Minister.

Snape arrived in a column of fire; a custom the Dark Lord had requested he keep in order to impress upon the Muggles the fact that his side had more power. The truth was that the Dark Lord and his enemies were deadlocked, with heavy casualties occurring endlessly on both sides and scores of helpless people caught in the middle. One of Snape's duties was to convince Britain's Prime Minister that Muggles had no choice but to surrender, but the Ministry of Magic had foreseen such action and set up wards against the use of any Unforgivable Curses. There was usually a guard as well, but the Dark Lord only sent Snape to negotiate when he knew the post had been abandoned.

The Prime Minister, who had been frozen with shocked surprise during Snape's previous visits, barely registered Snape's arrival. He was dashing about the room, watching the television, fastening his tie, and speaking on the telephone all at once. "I'll call you back," he barked at the telephone, punching a button and looking at Snape expectedly. "Well," he started, sounding rushed and out of breath, "no need to convince me which is the winning side. You have the giants, right?"

"Yes," said Snape, a bit taken aback by the harassed-looking Muggle, who wasn't even maintaining eye contact, but was staring at the television set behind Snape.

"If you had told me something like this would happen…" the Muggle trailed off, still utterly fixed upon the loud, colorful device.

"What are you talking about?" Snape said harshly.

The demand brought the Prime Minister's attention back to Snape in an instant. "Why, this!" he said, gesturing at the television. "This massacre, this _insanity_ coming out of the Bahamas."

Snape turned his back on the Muggle. He studied the screen for a moment, adjusting to the concept of live feed and voiceovers. Scenes of terrific violence flashed before him; Muggles were trampled, beaten, and drowned. The reporter named major city after major city, in countries all over the globe. The death toll was staggering. It was rising in leaps and bounds, more than any natural disaster had done, more than the Black Plague of the Dark Ages.

Snape stared.

It took him several minutes to realize what he was seeing. Giants were the cause. Massive, powerful, and stomach-churningly ugly creatures were destroying everything in sight. Snape did not recognize any of them. There seemed to be hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, more than there had been for centuries. As the cameraman swung his camera from a family of Muggles being crushed to a shot of their murderer, Snape saw that these giants were unlike any he had come across. The camera panned up, past the sequoia-thick legs and impossibly huge torso, to settle on the giant's face.

Snape saw old, deep, cold intelligence shining through those wide-set eyes.

The giant looked down at the man filming him. Snape heard the Muggle's scream, loud and piercing, as the giant foot arced and punted the little man through the air. The scream was squelched the instant the foot made contact, but for a moment, the footage kept coming, giving Snape a glimpse of more thundering figures in the distance. Their size varied widely between slightly larger than the usual, twenty foot giant, and as tall and big around as a small skyscraper.

Their plan must have been to kill every living creature. As the news station fumbled to provide viewers with a different source of input, Snape continued to stare, unmoving. These giants were organized and intelligent. They weren't following the Dark Lord's orders to keep quiet, keep hidden just a while longer, and let the Muggles think up excuses for the deaths instead of taking up arms. Muggles were left in no doubt that war was upon them, and had begun to fight back already. The channel abruptly reverted to a local broadcast, where news of a military facility, executing their rarely-used emergency defensive strategy, was being reported.

Quite suddenly, Percy Weasley's face appeared on the screen. His eyebrows were worried and his face pale. "If any witch or wizard is watching, please report to the Ministry. I repeat, if any witch or wizard is watching, please report to the Ministry immediately." His voice was alarmingly shrill. "This is an emergency of catastrophic proportions and merits a momentary freeze on the Statute of Secrecy. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has achieved new heights of terror and bloodshed. The Ministry is planning a counterattack. Please report to the Minist –."

The input ended. Snape and the Prime Minister were left staring at static.

Snape felt strangely blank. A quiet buzzing was humming through his body, starting at his gut, for he knew, despite the sheer disbelief that the little Muggle box inspired, that something was deeply wrong. No matter what the Ministry believed, the Dark Lord had not allied himself with those giants. Snape would have known of it. He had risen greatly in the Dark Lord's confidence since his escape from Hogwarts the previous summer.

Snape turned away from the Prime Minister, who had turned to stare questioningly at him, and strode through the door. He walked through the house, earning several strange looks from sharply dressed Muggles, and continued down Downing Street. He heard sirens, somewhere in the distance.

The Dark Mark flared suddenly to life. Snape clutched at his arm, but continued down the street. A few Muggles shot his billowing robes questioning glances.

Snape was experiencing a strange, vague sense of premonition. He had had it only twice before; once, when the Dark Lord was rising to power and people were first beginning to disappear, and then later, not long after he had overheard the prophecy about Harry Potter. Acting on those instincts had saved his life before. He kept walking through London, staying far away from any place he knew to have wizarding activity. The sirens kept blaring.

The pain in his forearm gradually grew less. The Dark Lord rarely used the Marks to call his supporters. He preferred to deal in secrecy, meeting one Death Eater at a time. The only reasons for him to summon a large group of his followers would be an announcement, a celebration, or an emergency.

Snape turned a corner and there, next to a double-decker bus, far down the street, stood a giant. The giant did not look particularly disturbed by the sirens, screams, or the police cars. He was one of the _different_ giants. Snape could tell because the giant didn't bother smashing the advancing police cars one by one. He picked up the bus, with tourists and all, and hurled it. The bus skidded down half the street, and in the aftermath of cries and shouting, the giant turned his sharp eyes to Snape.

Snape felt a gust of wind behind him, whipping his robes around boldly. He became aware that only wizards wore robes like his. Only a wizard would stand still and take stock while everyone else on the street ran around in a blind panic. And only a wizard would pose a threat to a giant.

He drew his wand.

The giant picked up one giant foot and placed in front of the other. He started walking slowly up the street, studying Snape closely, coldly calculating just how great a wizard he was facing. Snape had never seen anything like it. The giants' shoulders were level with the three-story buildings around him.

Snape lifted his wand, his mind racing with which spell to use, when to strike. The giant stepped on a Muggle who had been stupid enough to stay put. Snape knew he could be turned into pancake batter just as easily. Four more strides and the giant would be near enough for Snape to get a decent shot.

Three more and the giant could haul off and kick Snape, just as his brother had done that Muggle cameraman.

Two more and Snape could hex the soft area under the giant's jaw.

One more and the giant could swipe at Snape with one of those long arms.

"We're just trying to get this over with quickly –"

Snape disapparated. He didn't think, somehow, that sticking around to listen to the giants' reason for hostile takeover was a good idea. Snape had no doubt the giant would have popped his head off his shoulders after finishing with his apologetic gesture. Snape did not want to die without purpose on a street full of screaming Muggles. Coward or not, Snape had survived for this long. He would live a little longer.

* * *

Readers: So...this story's gonna be pretty different. Kyra's gonna take over the next chapter from Hermione's POV and I have NO idea what she'll do.

Kyra: Good luck! Call me to talk about it if you want!


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione's head was splitting.

It was currently cradled in her palms, her mane of bushy brown curls spilling forward and obscuring her face from view, and this was no accident. She was hiding behind her hair.

Hiding wasn't something that Hermione Granger often did; it ran directly contrary to her bold Gryffindor nature. But as anyone who's ever been in this particular situation can attest, it is supremely uncomfortable to have to witness a row within another family- and that was exactly the situation that Hermione, her elbows planted on the scrubbed-wood table of the basement kitchen of Grimmauld Place- found herself in the middle of now.

The gloomy kitchen of the late Sirius Black had been transformed into a whirlwind of flying red hair, shouted obscenities and tears as the two youngest Weasleys engaged in their latest battle royal. These had been coming with increasing frequency lately, as all Order members were under a great deal of stress since the death of their founder and leader, Albus Dumbledore- but none more so than the Weasley family, whose home, the Burrow, had been burned to the ground only a few short weeks after Dumbledore's funeral.

Thankfully, no one had been home at the time- only Arthur, Molly, Ron and Ginny had been living there during the summer, and they had all been out the night their house had been set ablaze and the Dark Mark cast into the sky overhead. Arthur had been on Order business, Molly and Ginny away for several days in France with Fleur, having their gowns made for the upcoming wedding, and Ron had been on a date with Hermione. But no matter how fortunate it was that no one had been injured, the entire large Weasley clan now found itself officially homeless- baseless- and Hermione knew it had to be a terrible way to feel. Arthur and Molly had moved to 12 Grimmauld Place with Ron and Ginny, who, like their parents, hated having to rely on Harry's charity no matter how freely given and no matter how they loved Harry himself- and since taking up residence there, the formidable tempers of the two youngest Weasleys had been at a constant high simmer, and were giving to boiling over often, and at only the slightest provocation.

Added to this recipe for disaster were two _new_ stress factors; the fact that Hagrid had recently left for a suicidally dangerous assignment, accompanied only by his "little brother" Grawp, who was unpredictable at best… and even worse, the fact that Harry, who'd been expected to arrive at 12 Grimmauld Place from the Dursleys'over two weeks ago, seemed to have opted instead to drop off the face of the earth; he had neither shown up nor made contact with any Order member whatsoever. The Dursleys, when confronted, had confirmed that Harry had left their home on exactly the day he'd been expected to arrive at Grimmauld Place. Out of all possible scenarios, the _best_ one was that he'd rethought his decision to include Ron and Hermione on his quest to find and destroy Voldemort's horcruxes, and had set off on this nearly impossible mission alone and friendless; that being the most _optimistic_ explanation for his disappearance, Hermione didn't like to speculate on the others- and there were many others, each more horrific than the last.

For his part, Ron's reaction to Harry's absence could be described less as anxiety and more as a state of perpetual high piss-off. Not allowing himself to dwell on the darker possibilities any more than Hermione was, he preferred to assume, just as she did, that Harry had deliberately gone off without them- and he was mad as hell about it.

Today, with the three teenagers being the only ones currently at Grimmauld Place, he had taken the opportunity of his parents' absence to vent some of his anger on his younger sister, resulting in a rapidly accelerating screaming match, with each of them- completely ridiculously, in Hermione's opinion- accusing the other of having had the ability to prevent Harry's departure if they had just done, or said, or written something differently in a letter. It was absurd, and utterly counter-productive, to be assigning blame this way. But something about the Weasley temperament, it seemed, embraced this sort of scream-fest as a form of stress-relief. It had degenerated, by this point, to an endless cycle of, "well, you should have known something was up! You're his _best mate!_" And- "well, _you_ should have known something was up! _You're_ the one who's meant to be _in love_ with him!"

Merlin, Hermione's head was splitting.

She had attempted to make for the kitchen door once, but had only succeeded in drawing attention to herself- both of the volatile redheads suddenly rounding on _her_, each quite vocally demanding her allegiance; Ginny based on their shared femininity, and Ron on the fact that he was her boyfriend. (They had started dating only a couple of weeks into the summer.) Before she'd been forced into a position where she'd have had no choice but to alienate one of them, however, they'd rounded on each other again, this time fighting over _her_.

"Leave my girlfriend out of this, Ginny! She'd never side against me anyway!"

'Oh, bollocks, Ron! Hermione's an intelligent witch and she sides with the one who's _right!_ And you're _NOT!_"

It was then that Hermione had resorted to hiding behind her hair.

Now, through the filter of her bushy, molasses-colored curls came the sound of a tremendous _CRASH_, followed by Ginny's voice, shrill and close to hysterics by this point, berating her brother. "Ron, how _could_ you? That was mum's favorite platter from home, you _know_ it was, it was the only thing out of the whole kitchen she salvaged, and you- how could you, you _bastard_-"

"_ENOUGH!_" Hermione screamed, having finally reached her own breaking point. She shot to her feet, unable to endure even one more moment. "That's enough, both of you! I- Can't- Take it- _anymore!_ I don't know what's happened to Harry, but I do know he cares about all of us, and the last thing he'd want is for us to rip each other apart, so just stop it! Stop it right _now!_"

Ron and Ginny gaped at her from amid the shards of Molly's broken platter, open-mouthed. Raising shaking fingers to her cheek, Hermione realized it was wet- at some point she had started to cry without being aware of doing so.

And in that moment of silence, the screams from outside on the street finally penetrated the basement kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place.

And then the Muggle car came crashing through the ceiling.

And then Hermione's headache _really_ got bad.

XOXOX

Ron's reflexes were astounding. Perhaps it had something to do with diving hither and thither to catch Quaffles and save goals in his Quidditch position of Keeper, for he made quite a spectacular dive now, managing to catch Ginny with one arm and Hermione with the other, and knocking them backward into a corner of the room, falling on top of them in the process; shielding them both with his body.

In the end, it was an unnecessary gesture, though not unappreciated by his sister and girlfriend. The car never actually hit the kitchen floor at all, but rather came to rest suspended halfway through the hole it had made in the ceiling, tilted at a severe downward angle. There were creaking, groaning, popping noises- though it was unclear whether they came from the car or were, in fact, sounds of protest from the house itself.

Up in the entry hall, the portrait of Sirius' mother began to scream its manic head off.

Getting to her feet, it was, unsurprisingly, Hermione who managed to actually register what she was seeing first. Not only the car itself, suspended there, halfway through the kitchen ceiling of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, where no such piece of the Muggle world should have been able to intrude, but even worse, what the car contained- for the driver was still inside.

"Oh my… God…" Hermione whispered, in a voice made rough by horror.

The driver was a teenage Muggle girl, no older than Hermione herself, and at first glance it appeared that her long hair was the same crimson color as Ginny's, whom Ron was even now helping to her feet (their screaming match of only seconds before now forgotten as completely as if it had been a lifetime ago)… but upon closer inspection she was actually blonde. Bore a disturbing resemblance to Luna Lovegood, as a matter of fact.

It was only the enormous quantities of blood that made it seem as if she were a redhead; she was drenched in it.

Her head hung at an odd angle.

And she wasn't moving.

Hermione, raising first one shaking hand and then the other to cover her mouth, stumbled backward and fetched up against the wall. Beside her, Ginny was making little choking, gagging sounds. Ron, as usual the last to cotton on in situations such as these, looked up from dusting himself off, rubbing a knee that had sustained a painful bump. "Wha-" he began, then trailed off. A moment later he managed a strangled sounding "bloody hell."

More screams came from above, out on the street. Crashes and bangs and great rending, tearing sounds, and people wailing, calling to each other, children shrieking.

"Oh my God," Ginny was saying now, her eyes huge and fixed on the girl- the corpse- in the car. Her voice was a low, shock-dulled monotone. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…"

Hermione swallowed back the bile that was rising in her throat. Wrenching one hand away from her mouth, she groped blindly to the side and found Ginny's shoulder. She squeezed hard, and Ginny quieted.

"Ron," Hermione managed, "we need to get up there and see what's going on."

"There's a car in here," Ron said, from the other side of Ginny. "There's a _car_ in here, Hermione."

"I see it," Hermione said, speaking through lips that felt so numbed they barely moved. "I see it, Ron. We need to get up on the street and find out what's going on."

Ron, characteristically, disagreed. "Are you- out of your- ever loving- mind? There is a _CAR _in here, Hermione! A car! In here! And in case you haven't noticed, it came from the _bloody street!_ We're not going up there."

Hermione pressed her eyes closed, blocking out the gruesome sight of Luna's look-alike, and raised the fingertips of both hands to her temples. It was a gesture she often employed late at night when she'd been studying hard, when the text, in whatever book she was poring over, all started to run together; to blur, to cease making any kind of sense. Sometimes at that point she would call it a night, but as often as not she would do this- make this gesture, which was a sort of plea from her body to her mind for _focus_, for calm, for rational thought. Once achieved, the studying could recommence.

Or, in this case, once achieved, she could hopefully think her, Ron's, and Ginny's way out of this mess.

She pulled in a deep, steadying breath, preparing herself for what would doubtless be the most difficult obstacle she'd face to getting out of here- reasoning with Ron. Finally, "Ron?" she said.

"Yes, Hermione?" Ron's voice was brittle- as brittle as Hermione's control felt.

"You noticed that there is a car in here."

"Why yes, I did."

"Right. Well then, you will realize what this means."

"Yeah- it means that car came from up there-" he shoved a finger toward the ceiling and, as if on cue, a fresh chorus of screams broke out from above- "and so that's the last bloody place on this bloody planet that I am taking my girlfriend and my baby sister."

"Ron, what this _means_," Hermione said in mounting exasperation (tinged by just the smallest flush of endearment for Ron's protectiveness) "is that at least some of the wards on this place have _failed_. No matter _what's_ going on up there, a Muggle car should not have managed to land down _here_. We're no longer safe here. We _need_ to get of here and figure out what's going on so we can decide what to do about it."

Ron chewed this over, looking doubtful. Ginny was quiet, leaning partially against the wall and partially against her brother, her eyes still glued on the dead girl in the car. "I still don't see why we have to go up _there_," he said at last. Something _big_ is going on-" there was another crash, this one actually shaking the ground- "we should apparate someplace safe. Hogsmeade or St. Mungo's or… something. I know Gin's too young, but she can side-along with one of us, or… what?"

It was costing Hermione a great deal of control not to slap her forehead in frustration, but some of what she was feeling must have come across in her expression, causing Ron to trail off. Now, "God, Ron," she burst out, "don't you _ever_ pay attention? This house is like Hogwarts- you _can't apparate_ from inside it!"

"But you just said the wards are down!" Ron challenged angrily.

"I said it's obvious that _some_ of the wards are down! We don't know if they all are. The anti-apparition ward might be down, and it might not. I don't really care to _splinch_ myself finding out! We have to get up on the street. _Then_ we can apparate, once we find out what the hell is going on around here!"

Ron took a deep breath, about to argue some more. Then, abruptly, he let it out, defeated. "All right," he said, and raked a hand through his coppery hair. "All right. Let's go. Wands out, and stick close."

Hermione hmph'ed a little. Yes, Ron's protectiveness was mildly endearing, but she really didn't care for being treated like a child. Stick close, indeed. Well, _obviously_. She made for the stairs and, warily, began to climb.

XOXOX

Nothing in their wildest imaginations (and the imaginations of wizarding youth can be pretty wild) could have prepared Hermione, Ron and Ginny for the carnage they encountered the instant they set foot outside- or for the source of that carnage.

The pair of giants had moved on down the street by the time the three teenagers edged out onto the sidewalk, wands held in front of them like talismans. The destruction that met their eyes was incredible. Buildings ripped open like houses-of-cards, trees uprooted, cars smashed, many lying on their sides in such as way as suggested they had been picked up and thrown. Broken bodies littering the pavement, the small front yards of the houses lining the block, the decrepit little square that sat opposite the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place- some still moving feebly; most not.

It was staggering. And Hermione had only just had time to mouth the words "oh, my God," when one of the giants, now at the far end of the next block, paused in the act of swinging a taxi cab in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle, because in themidst of doing so it had happened to glance back in their direction- and saw them.

Three figures standing, aghast, amidst the desolation of what had been a quiet residential street… unharmed, and more, holding wands.

A bolt of sick fear shot through Hermione as she realized that they had been spotted. The giant's face- an intelligent face; a remarkably _human_ face, not a grotesque, misshapen boulder like the one that sat atop Grawp's neck- showed first annoyance, then, taking in the wands clutched in the three teenagers' hands, an expression of cold calculation followed by grim resolve. It reached out and caught its companion by the arm. Bile rose in Hermione's throat, and, swallowing it back, she came to the unhappy realization that it had been a mistake to come up here.

A _big_ mistake.

And more than that- _her_ big mistake.

And one that might end up costing not only her own life, but the lives of two of her best friends as well.

Both of the giants were staring at them now.

"Er, Hermione?" Ron said quietly, as the giants conferred at the end of the street in voices like rolling thunder.

"Yes, Ron?" Hermione's throat was painfully dry.

"I think we should leave now."

"I agree," Ginny spoke up in a strangled voice.

The giants had begun to move toward them. The one that had been holding the taxi cab still held it, and appeared to be once again revving up to throw it- this time straight at them.

"Ron, take Ginny and go," Hermione said.

The second giant bent and effortlessly swept up a tree mid-stride.

"Where?" Ron asked. "Hermione, _where?_"

But for once, due to sheer volume of horror, Hermione's much-celebrated brain was failing her.

"Away from here," was all she could manage. "Someplace safe. Ron, take Ginny and _go!_"

"But how will we find each oth-"

The pair of giants were closing fast.

"Merlin, Ron, _GO!_"

The giant brandishing the car let it go. It arced through the air, hurtling toward the near-petrified teenagers. "Go," Hermione whispered, her eyes huge and locked on the yellow-and-black checkered taxi cab of doom bearing down on her, until it filled her whole field of vision.

Then there was a -pop- from beside her and she became aware of the sudden absence of Ginny and Ron. They'd apparated. They'd made it. They'd gone. And this knowledge was all that it took to galvanize her into action, with not a millisecond to spare.

She slammed her eyes closed, thought _SOMEPLACE SAFE!_ (it was still, in her shocked and mind-numbing panic, the best she could do, and really, anyplace on earth was likely better than where she was standing right at that moment, or so it seemed to her at the time)-

And apparated.


	3. Chapter 3

Snape ran. If he had still been wearing his Hogwarts robes, they would have been whipping furiously behind him, but wearing robes made Snape feel conspicuous, and hiding had become his prime concern over the past week. He ran through the Forbidden Forest like a shadow in snug black clothing, cursing his boots for thudding so heavily against the damp ground.

The rumbling voice of a giant overpowered Snape's sharp breathing. It was deep and contemplative and Snape couldn't understand a word of it. He kept running, hoping he hadn't been caught.

Another giant voice, closer and more nasal than the first, said in English, "I could have sworn I heard something."

Snape had been watching these particular two for days. They usually spoke some form of giant, and Snape had never been interested in learning the language until now. By the look of it, they were guards. They were the only constants around the castle; many others came and went. It seemed to be a sort of headquarters. Snape was trying to discover some of their plan, who was in charge, or whether any other wizards had survived. He hadn't seen a single human since he'd apparated to Hogsmeade a little under a week ago. But all Snape had learned was that giants – or at least this smaller, nasally one – had an uncanny ability to sense Snape's presence, no matter how quiet he was.

The larger giant grumbled. Snape could only understand one word of what he said; stop.

The smaller giant, whose name Snape had gathered to be Sleer, pushed further into the forest, towards Snape. Snape didn't dare turn around, but he could hear branches creaking and sped forward in a burst of panic. Sleer stopped abruptly. "There better not be any varmint here in this forest," he said threateningly. And then Snape heard the suspicious giant turn and retreat to the castle.

Snape slowed to a brisk walk, breathing hard to catch his breath. Sleer had given him several scares before. The giant was built on a small scale, especially compared to his companion, but his hearing was terribly sharp. Sleer had once heard Snape cracking a knuckle and had come crashing into the trees, searching for intruders.

A twig snapped somewhere nearby and Snape froze. He'd managed to avoid the centaurs so far by keeping from their beaten trail, but spending so much time hiding out in the forest had been unnerving, and centaurs weren't the only problem. A young acromantula, only the size of Snape's hand, but still very frightening, had landed on Snape's shoulder the previous night, when Snape had been eating some of the fish he'd accio'd out of a stream.

The wind continued to rustle the leaves and birds squawked reassuringly, so he continued.

The sun began to set. He sat on a large log in a clearing. A flash of his wand and a modest fire began to heat up the cool air. Snape stared into it, thinking about the likelihood of other wizard survivors. There were plenty of people he wished dead and very few he hoped were alive. That there might be every chance the giants had done their job thoroughly, and that he was the only remaining wizard, was a heavy price to pay for the relief Snape felt.

Life had been so disjointed before the giants. Snape's entire existence had collapsed into meaningless, unconnected moments. It hadn't mattered whether he used his shredded conscience or flung it to the winds. Since Dumbledore, Snape had killed several wizards. He'd also sat back and watched many die that he could have helped, like Grawp and Hagrid. On the other hand, he had saved lives. He'd organized the raid on the Weasley hovel, but the memory of the youngest Weasley, and her acceptable Potions work, had kept him from taking any care with the family schedule. They were supposed to have been there. Snape had difficulty breaking the habit of protecting his students. But, like everything else, that botched raid hadn't mattered in the end. Snape had a purpose now, the same as he'd always had, but it wasn't clouded by any moral obligation or lust for power; he wanted to survive.

Another twig snapped. This time, the growing noises of the night – crickets, trampling little footsteps, fluttering owl wings – all stopped momentarily. Snape extinguished the fire with a muttered charm, letting his eyes adjust to his dusky surroundings as he searched for predators. The chirping redoubled.

Snape had learned quite a bit about the new giants in the last few days. They weren't as bent on violence and cruelty as they originally seemed. In fact, compared to the giants Snape had known of his whole life, this breed was relatively calm and civilized. But he wasn't actually sure they were all one breed. Many different giants had visited the school while Snape watched. Their size, shape, intelligence, and even their levels of attractiveness varied so much that Snape could as soon compare one giant to another as he could one type of dragon to another.

The tiny hairs on the nape of Snape's neck stood on end. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling he was being watched, but a quick glance in all directions only turned up a few bats hunting insects. It was nearly pitch black now. An animal somewhere far off howled. Snape lit the fire again.

Snape had remembered something on his second day of hiding out near the giants' operation center. The Prime Minister had mentioned the Bahamas. It hadn't seemed much to go on, but Snape had _had_ to know more than he did about what was happening. He'd apparated to an island he'd seen once, in a flash of Muggle advertising, hoping the image hadn't been tampered with. It might have been, for Snape arrived with an acute headache and aching joints, but he had managed not to splinch himself. And then he'd seen something that wiped all thought away.

A rustle of cloth and a whiff of tobacco. Snape had definitely heard it. It sounded slippery and silken; an invisibility cloak. Snape drew his wand out slowly. He saw the sparse grass near his fire flatten under a heavy, invisible foot and focused his wand on the spot. "Who's there," he asked.

As the cloak slid off the wizard's head, Mundungus Fletcher emerged, filthy and disheveled. Snape scowled. "What are you doing here?"

"Just seeing what's happening," Mundungus said, taking a seat at the end of Snape's log. He was still wearing the invisibility cloak, and his shabby head bobbed in midair.

"Why didn't you show yourself?"

"Oh, you know," Mundungus trailed off, suggesting he'd been out to see what he could take without making his presence known. "It's my first time using this cloak."

"Did you steal it?" Snape asked sneeringly. Of all the people to survive and to find him, it had to be a dirty, thieving coward.

Mundungus feigned indignation. "Why, of course not. I earned it."

Snape's eyebrow rose as he turned to look into the fire.

"You got any food?" Mundungus asked, his disembodied head shifting closer to Snape.

Snape reached reluctantly into a pocket of his trousers. Mundungus was one of the people he'd least like to share the apocalypse with, but probably one of the only people who didn't give a damn about what Snape had done. He threw the package to a point a bit below Mundungus's chin.

Mundungus's hand shot out of thin air to catch it. "What's this?" He held the bag up and squinted at it.

"Dried cranberries, dugbog, and almonds," Snape said. It hadn't been too difficult to find food, actually. Snape would occasionally visit one of the stores in Hogsmeade that had been damaged, but still held a good amount of edible food. He timed his trips to when he knew the two giant guards he'd been watching – Sleer and the larger one – were on the other side of Hogwarts.

Mundungus opened the bag and sniffed it. Then he threw it back to Snape. "All right, just checking," he said, and a second later, his hand appeared holding a small, thin haunch of meat.

"What is that?" Snape asked incredulously.

"Rabbit," Mundungus said as he ripped off a hunk. "I cooked it this afternoon. A bit gamey, but okay, especially considering," Mundungus grinned at Snape.

"Considering?"

"You're living off rabbit food." Mundungus quickly wolfed down the rest of the meat, picked the bones clean, and tossed the remains behind him. "Say, do you got any whiskey? I ran out three days ago."

"No." Snape took in Mundungus' appearance and was immediately repulsed by the man's slimy mouth and matted hair. "What happened to you?"

"You mean when they came?" Mundungus smiled at Snape and turned to the fire. "I was in Azkaban, you know, when all the guards left, just like that. A bunch of us managed to get out of the fortress, but they were there already. They were smashing wizards left and right. I think I was one of the few to get to London. I went to the Ministry – "

"Didn't they throw you out?"

"They don't know what's going on. No one's got control. There's no organization. By the time they got around to taking count of everyone, I was gone. I only spent two days there. I just couldn't stand it anymore. All those witches and wizards, and a few Muggles, too – the family of some of the wizards. There weren't many people left, but they were all cramped and underground, because the top few levels had been smashed in the beginning. People kept getting desperate and leaving, saying they were going to fight the giants or find people they'd lost. I left too, even though not many came back. So, I've just been wandering, seeing what's up and then I found you."

"And you decided to follow me around in an invisibility cloak," Snape finished dryly.

"What about you?" Mundungus asked, facing Snape expectantly.

Snape reflected on his escape from the giants. After facing that giant on the street, he'd apparated to Hogsmeade. The trees and the hostility of the forest offered some protection, and he knew enough about the forest creatures to feel reasonably well-prepared. He could have found a bed somewhere in the village, but didn't want to risk the giants' finding him while he was asleep. He'd been there a week, watching, but on the second day, "I saw where they're coming from."

Mundungus stared at Snape in disbelief. "Where?"

"Between Florida and the Caribbean., from a stretch of sea."

_He stood on the white beach, staring at the sea. Waves smashed angrily onto the sand, spraying foam into Snape's face. He turned his back on it cautiously and clambered through the wildlife to the highest point on the island. He took a deep breath, as if breath could help him comprehend what was happening, and faced the sea._

_Miles out, water gushed upward and rippled across the surface. Great globs of water were forcing their way through the ocean from somewhere underneath. And then a dark speck appeared in the center and grew as it broke the surface. It started swimming toward a distant island. It swam freestyle and it swam with purpose. Snape watched it disappear on the horizon._

_The water was calm and smooth for several minutes. When it started to pulsate again, Snape left._

Snape finished his story. Mundungus stared blankly at him. "Who survived?" Snape asked him.

"Oh, no one in particular," Mundungus said carelessly. "Fudge, I suppose, but not Scrimgeour. I think I saw ol' Madeye, but mainly there was a bunch of Ministry parchment-pushers."

Snape eyed Mundungus thoughtfully. "Did you manage to steal anything interesting?"

Mundungus glanced around warily, and pulled a dully glimmering object out of the invisibility cloak. "I nicked it from a case in one of those rooms in the Department of Mysteries." He tilted his hand so the firelight illuminated his palm.

"You haven't tried it on, have you?" Snape stared in fascination. It was a thick, perfectly round bracelet, made of murky silver. On the inside, there was an inscription, written ridiculously large in some language Snape didn't recognize.

"Of course not," said Mundungus. "I'm not stupid." He brought the bracelet back inside his cloak. Snape could hear it clanging against something else as Mundungus stored it away.

Snape heard an owl hoot complacently and noticed that the stars were out completely. "I suppose you'll be sleeping here."

"Sure, why not," Mundungus agreed. "I'll bet you're a shake at transfiguring. Do you think you could conjure up some comfortable cots? Mine are always lumpy."

XOXOX

The next morning, Snape woke up to a high-pitched scream from Mundungus.

"Why _here_ they are, the little varmint."

It was Sleer. He was standing between tall trees at the end of the clearing. He shoved the trees aside and surged forward just as Snape rolled out of bed. Snape pulled out his wand and yanked Mundungus to his feet. Sleer yelled something over his shoulder. It wasn't English, but Snape was sure he was calling the other giant.

Just as Sleer turned back to his prey, Snape lifted his wand. "_Stupefy._"

Sleer's narrow eyes widened in anger, "Ah! You disgusting little human!" He started stalking quickly toward Snape.

Mundungus groaned and began running. Snape followed. "A _stunning_ spell?" Mundungus panted. "Come _on_."

Snape glanced over his shoulder. Sleer was so close; they hadn't had much of a head start. Snape doubted they'd make it into the cover of thick trees before Sleer caught them. Snape stopped running and turned around. This time, he took careful aim at Sleer's eye. "_Stupefy!_"

Sleer's right hand went up to cover half his face as he bellowed. He'd stopped moving. "You blasted, pathetic insect!"

Snape heard Mundungus continue running for the trees, but stood watching Sleer, now taking aim at the eye Sleer hadn't protected. But before Snape could decide on another spell simple and powerful enough to tear through giant hide, Sleer's partner came crashing through the trees behind Sleer. Sleer retreated, going to stand slightly behind the other giant.

Snape directed his wand at the bigger giant, and yelled "_Avada Kedavra_." Most of the clearing stood between them, but the flash of green hit the giant directly between the eyes and sent him sprawling backwards.

Sleer was stunned. He looked at Snape calculatingly, and as Snape brought his wand back toward Sleer, he took a step back into the forest. Sleer continued to back up slowly, pushing trees out of his way, and then he turned and ducked out of sight.

Snape turned in the opposite direction. In a few moments, he was in the shade of the trees. Mundungus was nowhere to be seen. He could have been hiding under the invisibility cloak that he'd worn all night, but Snape didn't think that was the case. Snape was sure Mundungus would be miles away soon, and Snape couldn't blame him. Snape didn't feel it was a good idea to stay in the forest much longer.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione held the mug both-handed. It was weak, watery tea- the worst she'd ever tasted, in fact- but it was warm, and imparted to her, when she closed her eyes, something of the comfort of home.

She kept her eyes closed, these days, as much as she possibly could.

It was easier than looking at the human- or rather, wizarding- misery all around her. When she allowed herself to look, her mind immediately went to work trying to comprehend what she was seeing and why- _why?_- and she couldn't. She just- couldn't- comprehend it. It was- dear God, it was a living, waking nightmare.

She lowered her face almost into the mug, allowing the steam rising from this poor excuse for tea to disguise the slow tears that were escaping her, even _with_ her eyes screwed shut. She was trying to disguise them even from herself. Steam, that's what it was, sure. Condensation. Right.

But there was a Catch 22.

See, once she closed her eyes, it was only a matter of time before the _images_ came flooding in- images of the "safe place" she had apparated to after losing Ron and Ginny outside of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. A location which had turned out to be anything but safe- which she wasn't sure could even really be considered a place anymore. Wreckage, that was all it had been. Wreckage and destruction and… and death. The place that had once been her home.

And here they came, of course, as she had known they would; a tsunami of images behind her closed lids- her entire street, flattened twisted wreckage, her own house no different from any of the others, smoldering, blackened, destroyed. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be, damn it- one's own home was always supposed to be the miraculous exception, that was the rule, wasn't it? She choked back a sob. That was the _rule._ Except, of course, the rules no longer applied to this world-gone-mad. Her safe place, her haven- there was nothing for her there. Her parents- she had had to dig and scrabble through the rubble and debris to find them, as twisted and blackened as everything else. The only thing left alive on the whole block, it had seemed, had been Crookshanks, who had been summering, as usual, at the Grangers' home. Singed and limping, he had clawed his way out of the wreckage at the sound of his mistress's sobs.

She had stayed there nearly twenty-four hours, paralyzed by shock and grief. When night had fallen she'd slept, shivering, amid the ruins of her life, her only source of warmth and companionship the large orange cat which had curled as close to her as possible, purring a low, steady rumble in what seemed an attempt to soothe her. When dawn had come at last, grey and weak, she had dragged herself into a sitting position, bleary-eyed and with her normally ebullient brown hair a tangled, matted mess about her head and shoulders. It had been time to think about what to do, where to go, next.

It hadn't taken her long to reach the conclusion that the safest place to go would be the Ministry of Magic; heavily warded, deep underground, impossible to take by force; an ideal sanctuary for the survivors of wizardkind.

Or so it had seemed until she'd arrived, using her wand to point the way to the nearest wizarding residence with a fireplace still standing, and flooing in.

The reality was that the Ministry was a sea of despair, rocking constantly on the edge of panic. She'd been surprised to arrive not in the stately Atrium, which served as a sort of entrance hall, but a small untidy room several levels down. It hadn't taken her long, Crookshanks in her arms, to discover the reason for this- many of the structure's upper levels, including the entrance hall, had been crushed from above. So much for her theory of complete untouchability- didn't really do much to inspire confidence, that didn't.

There were hundreds of refugees, with more trickling in all the time, and all confined to the lowest levels of the Ministry; small, musty, little-used rooms; a claustrophobic rabbit-warren full of miserable, exhausted survivors who, like Hermione herself, had lost everything dear- including loved ones. There was nowhere one could go and not hear sobbing, not see pale, shocked, tear-streaked faces. The place was becoming overcrowded; the air was thick and stale, they were running out of food. After a day or two- it was easy to lose track of time this deep underground- Hermione had found a sturdy box in an old office and had stuffed a protesting Crookshanks into it- she was no longer at ease with the idea of his running free because she'd caught more than one wizard staring at him with hungry, speculative eyes.

"This is not about being comfortable, Crooks," she had told the cat grimly as she'd shoved him, hissing, in. "This is about staying alive."

She kept wondering, with a vague sort of desperation, when she would wake up from this nightmare.

She had looked for Ron and Ginny soon after arriving, but hadn't found them. She didn't know whether to despair of this, or be glad for them. Perhaps there were other safe places out there, and if so, they just about _had _to better than this. Optimistic by nature, she had convinced herself that they were probably somewhere just as safe, and a good deal more comfortable, than the Ministry- so she was determinedly glad for them. She wouldn't wish these conditions on anyone, not even Death Eaters. Speaking of which- there _were_ Death Eaters here, or at least, families of Death Eaters- and they looked just as lost and confused, shocked and grief-stricken, as everyone else. It appeared that Voldemort was not behind this staggering wave of mayhem and death- which made it even more impossible to comprehend, really. If not Voldemort, than who? And dear God, _WHY?_

Pansy Parkinson was there with her mother, and Hermione had seen a handful of other Hogwarts students, but aside from Pansy there was no one else in her year. There was no one at all she'd been particularly close to- even the fact that she and Pansy were year-mates was not enough to bridge the gap between them, especially since Hermione could hardly help resenting the fact that a cow like Pansy still had _her_ mother with her; so the two girls barely acknowledged one another's presence. Percy Weasley was there too, alone of all the Weasley clan, instantly recognizable by his telltale shock of bright orange hair… but as the rift between him and the rest of his family had never really healed, he and Hermione had little to say to each other. All in all, Hermione had kept herself to herself.

And then Zacharius Smith had arrived, dragging behind him a small, sobbing girl just as blonde as he was. He had marched straight up to Hermione where she sat against a wall, arms around her drawn-up knees, staring into space with a very angry-sounding box set right beside her.

"Granger," he'd said, and then, when it took her a moment to bring her eyes back into focus, had repeated more loudly and insistently, "Hermione _Granger_."

She'd blinked up at him. "Zacharius Smith," she'd finally rejoined, at a complete loss for anything else to say.

He'd thrust the sobbing child forward, with a strange mix of brusqueness and tenderness. "This is my sister Elizabeth," he'd said, as the girl had stumbled into Hermione's lap, immediately dropping her face to Hermione's shoulder, wrapping her small yet surprisingly strong arms around Hermione's neck, and howling with the abandon that only young children possess. Zacharius had gone down on one knee and had spoken loudly so that Hermione could hear him over her sudden and completely unexpected armful of distraught little girl.

"This is my sister, Elizabeth," he'd repeated, practically shouting. "She's five years old. We just flooed here. My parents were right behind us, waiting their turn to come through, but that was twenty minutes ago and they haven't arrived. I'm going back to find them. Look after her for me, will you Granger? I won't be long." He'd leaned forward long enough to press a brief kiss on the back of the child's head and murmur something that sounded like, "I love you, Lizzie-monster," then he was back on his feet and turning away before Hermione had even managed to collect herself enough to call after him.

"Zacharius, wait!" she'd said finally, her arms coming up, seemingly of their own volition, to cradle the child against her. Elizabeth, now shuddering and gasping, was trying to speak through her tears- "Zachy, Zachy!"

"You can't leave her with me," Hermione said frantically, "she doesn't know me, she doesn't trust me! She needs _you!_"

"She doesn't need me," Zacharius had answered grimly. "She needs my mother, and so help me, I'm not coming back without her." And then he was gone.

He'd been as good as his word, too- he hadn't come back without his mother. As near as Hermione could tell, it had been over a week since Zacharius has left Elizabeth in her care, and he hadn't come back at all.

XOXOX

At least with the cat and the child to care for, her days had taken on something of a routine- and Hermione was a creature who thrived on routine. Her days were structured now; she had purpose and responsibility; and she was grateful for that.

A system of bells, magically amplified so that they could be heard throughout the Ministry, had been implemented to help the underground refugees keep track of time. A bell would ring at eight in the morning, the suggested time of awakening, and Hermione would rouse herself and Elizabeth, lead the little girl by the hand to the dingy bathroom at the end of the hall (with Crookshanks' box tucked under her other arm- she dared not leave him alone, even for a moment), and get both of their faces washed and their hair finger-combed as best she could. At nine o'clock a second bell would ring; this was to announce the distribution of morning rations. Having a small child in tow, Hermione was given preferential treatment. She, along with the other parents and caretakers of young children, was allowed into a separate and much shorter line, and was given not only a normal two-person ration so that she and Elizabeth could have breakfast, but also an extra packet so that the child could have lunch. As an adult, _she_ would not eat again until dinner.

After that it was off to the lowest levels of the building for the day, to try to find a private, or at least semi-private room where she could let Crookshanks out of his box, and where Elizabeth could play quietly for the next few hours. The noon bell would ring and Hermione would give the child her midday meal. Shortly after this Elizabeth would always fall asleep, and Hermione would usually find herself nodding off as well- more so as the days went on. Her energy was lagging because between seeing that Elizabeth (a remarkably hungry child) got all she needed to eat, and feeding Crookshanks, who did not qualify for separate rations, she was really only eating the equivalent of a single ration packet per day herself. Sometimes not even that. She didn't allow herself to dwell on this fact, however- what was the point of dwelling on it when there was no alternative? She preferred to ignore the fact that she'd been feeling increasingly lightheaded for over two days now- had stumbled and fallen against the wall when she'd gotten up this morning, nearly fainting. The child's welfare had to come first, period, end of discussion. Zacharius Smith could not have chosen a better caregiver for his precious baby sister. (But then again, despite what ignorant, stuck-up Slytherins such as Draco Malfoy chose to believe about Hufflepuffs in general, Zacharius Smith had never been anyone's fool.)

Following their afternoon nap came the daily struggle to get Crookshanks back into his box before venturing once again into the more crowded mid-levels of the Ministry; funny how most people wanted to stay as high up within the structure as they could… why were the higher levels more appealing to people? What an odd psychological phenomenon. Toward the beginning of her time here, Hermione had spent the better part of a day puzzling over it. In any event, the rations were handed out on the highest usable level… perhaps that was the whole reason right there. At half-past-five the bell for evening rations would ring, and it was back into line. After dinner came the evening toiletries (finger-brushing of the teeth, rather than the hair, this time), and then the business of scouting out a decent place to sleep the night; still not _too_ crowded an area, but not isolated either. Once the lights went out, as they did at half-past-nine every night, dousing the refugees instantly in near-total blackness, it was a good idea to have at least a few decent folk- families- nearby. As the days had dragged on, Hermione had found that some of the less savory, unattached wizards had been more and more often regarding _her_- rather than her cat- with that hungry, speculative look in their eyes. It made her long for more coverage than the capped-sleeve tee-shirt and lightweight, flouncy peasant skirt (both in a warm brown shade that Ron loved for how it complimented her hair and eyes) that she had been wearing that morning at Grimmauld Place- the only clothing she'd had through this entire ordeal.

Once the lights went out she would whisper fairy tales to the child until she fell asleep- that and stories of growing up in the Muggle world, which, to a young pureblood like Elizabeth, were just as enchanting as fairy stories, if not more so. She had thought she was doing a pretty good job of keeping her voice steady at these times, concealing under cover of darkness the fact that her eyes leaked a steady, slow stream of tears nearly all the while she spoke of her own childhood- until the night when the girl had reached out, unerringly in the dark, and wiped the moisture from Hermione's cheek with a tiny, gentle hand. She was a remarkably intuitive child, Elizabeth; intelligent too, which was a quality Hermione certainly appreciated. The two had bonded from the very first instant the child's arms had wrapped themselves around Hermione's neck- though the first thing Elizabeth still did when she opened her eyes every morning was look around for her family and then weep brokenheartedly for their absence. Hermione could hardly blame her for that. Not when she did practically the same thing herself.

And so had passed nearly a week and a half of her life; a refugee cut adrift from her family, friends and home; an orphan caring for an orphan- because that, she had become increasingly sure, was what little Elizabeth was.

XOXOX

Which brought her right back to this day, this moment, this quickly cooling cup of mediocre tea. Breakfast was not long past- the tea was part of her morning ration; the only part of it she had kept for herself. She was sitting slumped in a corner, and Elizabeth and Crookshanks were at the other end of the room, she knew, though she had yet to take her head out of her mug and open her eyes again- the child lying on her stomach and drawing with some parchment and a self-inking quill Hermione had purloined from an abandoned office; the cat lounging close enough to bat at the quill every now and then, making Elizabeth giggle. Otherwise they were alone in the room, which was on one of the Ministry's lowest levels. Privacy- quiet- for once. It was putting Hermione to sleep, and it was barely ten in the morning. Merlin, she was so tired now, so tired all the time. The sharp hunger pains that had plagued her for a while had gone away some days ago, thank God, to be replaced by a steady dull ache… and now, finally, even that had tapered off to just a numb sort of miserable emptiness… but she was just… _so_… tired.

Nonetheless, she dragged her head up, dragged her eyes open.

And screamed, dropping her tea in her lap and startling backward, only to hit her head hard on the wall she'd been slumped against.

A filthy, disembodied head hung in the air before her, right at eye-level, leering at her.

The leer split into a grin- this apparition was enjoying the fact that it had frightened her so- and just as recognition struck her and she realized who she was looking at, Mundungus Fletcher spoke.

"Hello, love," he said jovially, "I know who you are, sure enough. You're Harry Potter's little friend, that stuck-up little Muggle-born, the bookworm!" Already sitting cross-legged on the floor, he whipped off the rest of the invisibility cloak he'd been wearing and bundled it into a small pool of silver on his lap. He then continued to grin at her like some manic Cheshire cat, completely unrepentant for having scared the daylights out of her and gotten her a wet lap and a nice little lump on the head to boot.

She wanted to _slap_ that slimy grin off his face. If only she had the energy…

Instead, "what are you doing here, Mundungus?" she asked wearily, glancing around him to make sure Elizabeth and Crookshanks were undisturbed. Elizabeth was watching Hermione over her shoulder- when she saw that things seemed all right again, she turned back to her parchment with a flip of blonde hair.

If anything, his grin broadened. "Just got in this morning," he said. "I was poking around, looking for a nice, quiet place to have a bit of a lie-down. Then I see you and I says to myself, I know that girl- it's the know-it-all! The house elf crusader! And a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you. Good to see a friendly face, you know?"

As far as Hermione could tell, her face was looking anything but friendly at the moment. Mundungus didn't seem the least bit deterred, however. He wiggled about some, apparently making himself more comfortable, pulled out a hip-flask, took a long pull, and offered it to Hermione. Whatever was inside made her nose wrinkle. She crossed her arms over her chest and merely glared at him.

"Ah well, more for me," he said cheerfully, and drank again.

"Where have you been?" Hermione asked finally, her curiosity for news of the outside world getting the better of her.

"Oh, here and there," the infuriating man answered blithely. "In and out, you know. I was here for a several days… didn't see you around, but then it's awfully crowded, isn't it? Not hard to miss a familiar face… but just lately I've been up there-" he nodded vaguely toward the ceiling- "in the woods outside Hogwarts, with…" he leaned forward, drawing it out, savoring the punch-line to his little tale- "a giant-slayer!"

He whispered the last three words just inches from her face, subjecting her to a nauseating rush of foul, alcohol-laced breath- then, (thank God for small favors), drew back once more and dropped her a cheeky wink.

It took Hermione a moment to process what she'd just heard- Mundungus' breath alone had sent her head spinning. As giddy as she'd been these past couple of days, it didn't take much. Then his words sank in and her eyes widened. "A giant-slayer," she repeated slowly, "Are you talking about a _person_ who kills those things?"

Mundungus chuckled. "More than that, love-" (Hermione couldn't suppress a small shudder at this inappropriately intimate term of endearment- to be called 'love' by Mundungus Fletcher felt dirty somehow- like some of his sliminess was rubbing off on her. She couldn't think of anyone she'd less like to be called 'love' by… except maybe Lucius Malfoy, in his cultured voice of sleek malice. Or Argus Filch- _there_ was a stomach-turning thought. Or that traitorous, murdering, greasy bastard Snape. But Mundungus was continuing, so she forced herself to pay attention once more)- "I'm talking about a _wizard_ that kills those things. I watched him do it. And not just any wizard either, oh no- someone I daresay you know rather well!"

Hermione's lips parted as a sudden and wonderful thought occurred to her. "Harry," she breathed, "was it Harry? Oh, say it was Harry, say you've found him!"

But as soon as she spoke these words, something in Mundungus' expression slammed shut. His eyes went furtive and shifty, and, Hermione noticed, his hands fisted convulsively in the fabric of the cloak in his lap. "Harry Potter!" he just about yelped, "no, no, it wasn't him-"

But Hermione cut him off, her mind working feverishly now, her gaze still locked on the invisibility cloak; she was seeing it through new eyes. "_Where did you get that cloak?_" she asked, and her voice was low and dangerous.

Mundungus started to scuttle backward, crablike. "This is _my_ cloak," he said defensively, "I earned it fair and square!" But his expression told a different story- guilt was written all over his face.

In a flash they were both on their feet, Mundungus backing toward the door while holding his hands out in front of him, the cloak dangling from them like a rippling, silken shield, in a gesture apparently intended to keep her at bay.

"You give me that cloak _right now_," Hermione said, her voice edging higher, Elizabeth and Crookshanks now turning again to watch the developing confrontation. Crookshanks' hackles were rising.

"I don't know what you're on about-" Mundungus protested, nearly stuttering now in the face of her gathering rage, reaching one hand behind himself, groping for the door handle- "but this is _my_ cloak and-"

"You filthy, lying _sneak-thief!_" Hermione exploded. "That's Harry's cloak and you know it, I can see it in your face! That's Harry's cloak and he would _never_ give it away to the likes of you, _never!_ You tell me where he is and what you've done to him, you tell me _RIGHT NOW!_"

But at that exact moment Mundungus' hand found the doorknob and twisted… and then all hell broke loose.

XOXOX

There was a sudden, rising, rumbling roar from above them, as if of hundreds of pairs of feet suddenly in motion up on the more densely populated levels of the Ministry. It was startling enough to cause both Hermione and Mundungus to stop dead in their tracks, staring at each other in surprise and dawning alarm.

Then they heard the screams, and dawning alarm turned to mounting panic.

And then came the smoke, thick and yellow and noxious and clearly poisonous, pouring out of the fireplace at the far end of the room, and mounting panic was completely eclipsed by a rush of sheer, abject horror.

"Merlin's balls," Mundungus swore, his voice thick and ragged with dismay, "the bastards are smoking us out!"

"What?" Hermione asked numbly, staring from the roiling fireplace to Mundungus and back again, temporarily paralyzed by shock at this horrific turn of events- not comprehending what she was seeing; not _wanting_ to. "What's going on?"

"The giants- they're using the floo network, don't you see?" Mundungus was gabbling, "they've discovered how it works and they're smoking us out like rats under a house, like rabbits in a warren! We can't floo out because of the smoke pouring in- and we can't apparate out because of the wards on this place! We're dead, don't you see? We're all _DEAD!_"

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, her eyes flying now to Elizabeth and Crookshanks, who were both on their feet, Crookshanks hissing at spitting at the offending fireplace, "oh my God, they can't- they _can't_, there are _children_ down here! Mundungus, what-" but when she turned back toward him, he was gone, the door now standing ajar.

The screams and pounding footsteps were coming closer; Hermione realized that everyone must be fleeing down, down away from the smoke, which would have reached the upper levels first. In the absence of any better plan of action, she decided it seemed as good a tactic as any- perhaps there were fewer fireplaces the farther underground one got- perhaps none at the very bottom. And smoke naturally rose, so if she could find a place on the lowest level to maybe wait this out… it was a poor plan, she knew it even as she sprang into action, but it was also her only plan; a slight hope as opposed to none at all, and so she seized on it both-handed.

Crookshanks did not object to being put into his box this time, even though panic made Hermione rough. He seemed to understand the alternative- or lack thereof. With the cat safely ensconced in the box and a terrified Elizabeth firmly grasped by the hand, Hermione hurried into the corridor, already beginning to cough from the smoke that had been rapidly filling the room. It was strong stuff, too. Before she was halfway down the hall, she had to stop and lean against the wall as a coughing fit threatened to drive her to her knees. Elizabeth was coughing too, though fortunately for her, she was just naturally lower to the floor than Hermione- even Crookshanks in his box was making unhealthy wheezing, hairball-type noises… and more smoke was pouring into the hallway from nearly every door they passed.

She wondered where Mundungus had gone, under cover of Harry's invisibility cloak- whether he had had the same idea she had. And she wondered why she met so few people in the hall, when there were so very many people in the Ministry- it had sounded like thunder overhead, all the footsteps she and Mundungus had heard originally. And then it hit her- as another hacking fit of coughing _did_ drive her to her knees- that she had started out with an enormous advantage, already being several floors below most of the other refugees… and that so few of them were making their way down to this level because they must have already succumbed to the smoke.

Grief and horror and rage washed over her in a tidal wave of emotion. She thought of the family that had slept beside her and Elizabeth just last night- a young couple who'd looked barely a day over twenty- folks tended to marry early in wizarding society- with a toddler, and another child on the way. The young woman had looked like a balloon about to burst; she wouldn't have been able to move very quickly under the best of circumstances. The sheer atrocity of this whole situation was almost too much to bear- that and the smoke and the fact that she was weak already from hunger; it was practically enough to make Hermione give up, pass out, on the spot. Her head was spinning. The whole _corridor_ was spinning. But there was Elizabeth, now making strangled sounds of distress as she attempted to cough and cry at the same time.

_Not us_, Hermione thought grimly, tightening her hold on the child's hand, _not Elizabeth, no! Zacharius trusted me, he _trusted_ me and I won't let him down, I won't, I WON'T_- and using the wall as support, she dragged herself back to her feet and stumbled on.

She managed somehow to get down two flights of stairs without falling again- a small miracle in and of itself- and into the lowest level of the Ministry, only to find her hopes dashed; the lethal smoke was almost as thick here as it had been everywhere else. She managed to stagger a few feet down this new corridor before her feet went out from under her, and she fell into- and then through- a nearby door. On her hands and knees she looked up, despairing- and then felt a sudden, dizzy surge of hope. A bathroom- she had fallen into a bathroom. And bathrooms _didn't have fireplaces_. She couldn't believe this hadn't occurred to her before.

The air in here was relatively clean- by the standards of the hallway, at any rate. Gasping like a fish out of water- but grateful, even as her head swam, for the opportunity get in a breath at all without choking on it, she pulled Elizabeth and Crookshanks, still in his box, into the room after her and shut the door.

Her relief was short-lived, however. They were trapped in here; there was nowhere else for them to go- and smoke was still getting into the room, through the cracks around the door. She had bought them time, that was all- she had bought them a slow death instead of a quick one. A lingering death in a dingy, disused bathroom hundreds of feet below the wreckage of London, the open sky. It was too awful to be borne. There had to be something she could do. There had to be a way out. There was _always_ a way out, if she could just get it together for a minute and think things through.

Another coughing fit seized her.

Coughing so hard she was nearly retching, unable to regain her feet, weak and dizzy and at the verge of blacking out, she pulled the child and the cat to the far end of the room, away from the door. "Stay… here," she choked out, and then crawled into one of the toilet stalls. She'd just had an idea to buy them yet a little more time. Pulling her tee-shirt off over her head, she ripped it into three pieces which she plunged into the stagnant water of the toilet bowl. She would have infinitely preferred to use a sink, but didn't think she'd be able to straighten up enough to do so- and anyway, even if she managed to pull herself up for a moment, she knew that she would find the air thicker with smoke up at her standing height. It was better to stay low, and so the toilet would have to do.

Wringing out the sopping pieces of her shirt, she returned to where Elizabeth huddled beside Crookshanks' box. She wrapped the largest piece of wet fabric around the child's head, so that her nose and mouth were completely covered. "Bree- heathe… through… the shirt," she managed to say, her eyes locked on Elizabeth's until she saw that the child understood and would obey. She then yanked the lid off Crookshanks' box. The cat lay at the bottom of it, struggling to breathe. Hermione lifted his head and wrapped the second piece of fabric around it, covering it completely. Crookshanks did not resist, though whether this was because he understood her intent, or merely because he hadn't the strength left, Hermione couldn't tell. This left the last- and smallest- piece for herself. It wasn't large enough to wrap around her own face. Wadding it up, she held it over her nose and mouth, and fought to drag in a deep breath through it.

Her body was shutting down- large black starbursts blooming before her eyes, darkness creeping in on her from the corners of the room- but her mind was still working feverishly, trying to figure their way out of this deathtrap.

It was hard to keep a hold of her thoughts. Wards around this place… Mundungus had said… couldn't apparate out… wouldn't know where to go if she could… God, no, there had to be a solution, there _had_ to be… it was dancing just out of her reach… she could feel it. Wouldn't know where to go if she could… but there was a giant-slayer out there somewhere… and something about Harry… Mundungus had said it wasn't Harry, but Mundungus was a liar and a thief… why should she believe him? Giant-slayer might be Harry… whoever it was, she would be safe if she could reach him… but one couldn't apparate to a _person_, only to a place… and she couldn't apparate anyway, there were wards; she'd already covered that. Merlin help her, she was going around in circles. Anti-Apparition wards in place… she'd have to break through them somehow… if she could just bring them down… even if only in this room… but how, _how?_ And how would she find the giant-slayer once she did?

She was crying in frustration, which didn't much help her attempts at breathing through the dampened, wadded fabric of her shirt. Enough smoke had filtered in through the cracks around the bathroom door that the room was now officially just as bad as the hallway outside had been. She was running out of time. _Keep thinking_, she ordered herself, _keep thinking, you're almost there. Something I read once_… _some emergency spell_… _there _is _something for a situation like this, I know there is, if I can just_… _REMEMBER_…

And then if came to her, all in a rush. A book in the Hogwarts library called… something like "Spells For Every Magical Emergency"… that may or may not have been the exact title, but it was close, and anyway, that hardly mattered now; the important thing was what the book had _contained_. Two spells, in particular, that could be used in conjunction with one another; the first to bring down protective wards within a very small, enclosed area, through the use of a magic circle- the second to convey the caster, and any other person or living thing the caster maintained skin-to-skin contact with, to the closest source of help, through a process similar to apparition. Or… it didn't have to be the _closest_ source of help… it could be a _particular_ source of help, if the caster knew what kind of help it was that she needed. If she worded the spell correctly, she could instruct it to take them to the giant-slayer.

She thought she remembered all the words, all the nuances. She had a reasonably photographic memory when it came to things she had read, combined with a pretty good track record of getting new spells right on the first- or sometimes the second- try. Of course, in this case there would be no room for second tries… and this was advanced magic, and meddling in advanced magic had some pretty dire consequences if one didn't really know what one was doing. Getting the first try wrong could very well kill them all. But _not_ trying was certain death, and when faced with a choice between even the tiniest sliver of a chance for survival, and certain death, well, it wasn't difficult to choose her course of action.

More was the pity that in order to make this work she would have to speak a somewhat lengthy incantation… which meant, of course, removing her makeshift air filter from her nose and mouth. But it was the only alternative; she would do what she had to. This wasn't really even about saving herself anymore. It was about the child. She had to get Elizabeth out. And Crookshanks. She had to hold it together long enough to complete the incantation, that was all- and if she reached this giant-slayer, whoever he was, (_Harry, _her mind cried stubbornly, _it's Harry, I know it is, I don't care what that filthy liar said, that was Harry's cloak and it's HARRY!_) too late to save herself, so be it, just as long as the child survived. That alone would make it worthwhile.

She held the dampened shred of her tee-shirt in place for as long as she could- all the while she prepared for the spell, first pulling her wand from the waistband of her skirt (it had seen very little use over the past several days, and was positively thrumming with energy now, ready to go) and using it to create the magic circle, of cool-burning scarlet fire, around herself on the bathroom floor- then dragging Elizabeth and Crookshanks, both no better than semi-conscious by now, into it, one at a time. She left Crookshanks' box where it was; in order to take him with her via the emergency transport spell, she would have to maintain skin-to-skin, or as the case may be, skin-to-fur, contact with him.

Then she could no longer put it off. It was time to speak the spell. It was time to do or die. Or maybe both.

She took one last, ragged breath through the fabric, trying to pull as deeply as she could, not succeeding very well- and then she cast it aside. It landed with a wet, sickly _plop_ outside the circle, on the grimy grey tile of the bathroom floor. On her knees within her magic circle, now breathing in heavy, unfiltered, sulfurous smoke, Hermione began to recite.

She had to start over twice from the beginning because her coughing was becoming so bad it that was rendering her words unintelligible- but sheer grit and determination saw her through. In her final recitation, she went slowly and deliberately, coughing in between nearly every word she spoke- but not _over_ them. Not over them. By the end of it, when she finally felt the spell- or rather, the combination of spells- take hold, she was on her hands and knees, her head hanging almost to the floor, coughing up flecks of blood. Even so, she had the presence of mind, as she reached out to grab Elizabeth's wrist with her left hand and Crookshanks' tail with her right- to feel a brief flash of chagrin at the idea of arriving essentially topless (yes, she was wearing a bra, but Hermione was a very modest girl), practically in Harry's lap. If this elusive giant-slayer even was, in fact, Harry.

_Let it be Harry, oh please, God, let it be,_ she prayed as the spell picked her up and whirled her away.

XOXOX

There was a rush of wind, of sound, of darkness- it felt like being inside of a cyclone, a vortex. Then she was slammed back into the ground, still on her hands and knees- well, technically elbows and knees now, as her hands were still grasping her two companions- and there was light again. She couldn't tell very much about the light, but she could tell it was daylight. Oh, thank God, thank _God_… daylight.

And there were shoes in front of her; battered black boots, with grungy black trousers stuffed into them. She noticed this just as the worst coughing fit yet took hold of her and she pitched to one side- the legs were bending now and before she could hit the ground a pair of strong, warm hands gripped the bare skin of her shoulders- moving quickly to grasp her by the upper arms and haul her, none too gently, onto her feet.

Which were having none of it. Her feet wouldn't support her. Her knees were buckling. The only thing holding her upright were those rough, calloused hands. And she couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe at _all_. She was coughing, coughing, coughing _out_- but she couldn't seem to drag any air back _in_. The worst-case scenario had happened. She had made it back up to the world of fresh, clean air- it was all around her, it was _everywhere_- but she'd been too badly damaged by the smoke. It was too late. She was dying.

Merlin, it was just so _unfair!_

She wanted to scream, to beg, _help me, God, help me, please, I don't want to die!_ But she couldn't make a sound. Her chest heaved once, twice, pulling desperately for air- it was a futile effort. She was collapsing against him, her head crashing into his chest- and even in the state she was in, she recognized that something seemed off about this- Harry was not this much taller than she- her head should be on his shoulder. Then there were arms wrapping tightly around her, lowering her back to the ground, one hand coming up to catch her head as it fell back, to ease it the rest of the way down.

He was on his knees beside her now- she could tell that much- and she could hear a voice speaking to her- _shouting_ at her, more like. She couldn't make out the words though… her ears didn't seem to be working properly. And here was a face… coming close now, hovering over her as she arched right up off the ground in one last, frantic, useless attempt at breath, her hands fisting convulsively in the fabric of his shirt. The hair was black… she thought… black like Harry's, for sure… but there was… so… _much_ of it… it seemed to be hanging down around her in a way that was all wrong… and the eyes… they weren't that brilliant bottle green she knew so well… they looked black too, she thought, though she couldn't be sure- _everything_ was going hazy and black now.

She could still hear a voice far away, but it was fading more with every passing second. Those warm hands came up to frame her face now, pushing her rumpled hair back from her forehead, pinning her between them, holding her steady. They felt kind of nice, those hands. It was comforting to know, at least, that she wasn't alone. It was just too bad they couldn't save her. Nothing could.

The very last thought she had was that she didn't even know whether the others had made it- whether they'd survived. For all she knew, she had failed completely.

Then the airless, suffocating darkness took her.

XOXOX

A/N: Whew... this is a really long chapter, but I got started and just couldn't stop, lol! Don't think every chapter will be this long- that's not a fair precedent to set for Alex, and I severely doubt I'll live up to it myself! I almost chopped it up, but Alex and I _really_ wanted to get Hermione and Severus together by the end of chapter 3. Ball's in your court again, Alex- I _CANNOT WAIT_ to see what you do with it!


	5. Chapter 5

Well, it's a rather domestic chapter ahead. I had some giant stuff in there, but for some reason, it really wasn't working for me. Kyra, I'll give it to you for the next chapter to use as you see fit.

Sorry, sorry, sorry about the wait. Wanna know why? Check out my alex25 profile.

* * *

"Why is Crookshanks licking himself there?"

Snape groaned. It was about the hundredth question he'd been asked since waking up that morning. "Because," he answered gruffly, "he has to stay clean and doesn't have a washcloth."

Elizabeth smiled down at Crookshanks, who was lolling about just outside the cave, enjoying the late-afternoon sun. Then she scooted her little tree stump closer to Snape. "What's that you're adding?"

"Fluxweed, from the store I visited before you came." Snape had taken a leaf out of Mundungus Fletcher's book and begun hunting rabbits. He'd nearly perfected the tough, sinewy creatures, though he thoroughly missed Hogwarts fare.

"Mmm…fluxweed. I love fluxweed," Elizabeth said, smacking her lips and smiling up at him. Snape knew Elizabeth had no idea what fluxweed was, but the little ankle-biter seemed determined to make herself agreeable.

"It's easy to find in forests like these. Once we run out, I'll teach you to gather it." Snape turned the spittle over to roast the other side of the rabbit. "I'll also teach you how to skin a rabbit."

"Euw! No!" Elizabeth laughed and scooted her trunk just a bit closer. She stared into the fire, her small face growing solemn. "Will Hermione really be okay?"

Snape looked back at Hermione, who was laid out along the far wall of the cave, still as death. "Yes," he said firmly. But Snape wasn't sure. Hermione was _alive_. There was a moment, two days earlier, right after she'd lost consciousness, when he thought she was gone, but then she'd had some sort of seizure, and her heartbeat had continued, faintly, and remained ever since. The problem wasn't whether or not she would live, but whether there would be any complications.

She hadn't woken up once, not during the trip to the cave, not in response to his attempts at revival, and that was beginning to worry Snape. Actually, he'd been worried – shocked, astonished, flummoxed, and amazed – since the very moment she'd appeared at his feet, on all fours and _topless_.

XOXOX

"Damn it, witch, what was it? A fire, a Nundu, what?"

It was one of the most bewildering moments of Snape's life, made worse by the fact that he didn't know what to deal with first; the cat and the little girl were both unconscious, but Hermione, despite being awake, seemed far worse off than the other two. There was blood smeared across her face and she looked and sounded as if she were about to cough her lungs up. "MISS GRANGER," Snape said loudly, trying to speak over her awful coughing.

She didn't seem to hear him. She was mouthing something between bouts of violent hacking. Snape studied her flushed, tear-stained face as he lay her back down again. _Harry_. That's what she was saying, of course. Or it was what she would be saying if she weren't struggling desperately to breathe. Her eyes were wide and lolling, and she was clutching weakly at him.

"Miss Granger, control your coughing for a moment and listen to me! I can't HELP YOU unless you TELL ME WHAT CAUSED THIS," Snape yelled at her. She didn't answer. She just kept coughing. "Sweet Merlin, this is the ONE time it actually _matters_ that you answer, you daft witch." Still, all she did was cough. It sounded as if she were trying to exorcise her throat of a year's buildup of mucus.

Her face suddenly turned a waxy white and she slumped limply against the ground. Snape pushed her hair out of the way. Her eyes were rolling slowly to the back of her head. She twitched sharply, just once at first, then more tremors followed. He didn't know what to do; was this in reaction to poison, smoke inhalation, or some kind of curse? The shudders died down fairly quickly, and Snape felt for her pulse.

There was nothing. He became suddenly aware of cold sweat on his forehead, and the harsh chilly edge in the breeze. He hadn't seen Hermione Granger since a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, a little before his flight from Hogwarts.

"Shit," Snape said desperately. He turned to the others for some sort of explanation. The little girl was flushed, and Snape could see her chest expanding very weakly with shallow breaths. There was a damp rag askew around her neck, on the cat likewise. It _would_ be like Hermione Granger to ignore her own safety for the sake of a fat, ugly cat.

Snape trained his wand on the girl. "_Ennervate_." With a spasm, she awoke. Just like Hermione, she began coughing frantically. "Stop it, girl," Snape said in his most commanding voice, and perhaps because she was better off than Hermione, she actually seemed able to hear him. For a moment, she stared up at him in wide-eyed astonishment. Snape seized her head and jaw, pulled them apart without trouble, and then looked into her mouth.

He was surprised, and a little impressed, when she said "ahh," moving her tongue out of the way and giving him a clear view of a thoroughly enflamed throat, but the action set off another coughing fit.

"Hold still," Snape said, pulling her up to a sitting position and pushing her hands away from her throat. She coughed at him, her little blonde eyebrows furrowed in irritation, while he took careful aim with his wand. "_Mucuwasi_." A thick, impossibly large quantity of yellowish mucus soared from her throat and landed in the dirt.

Thankfully, her coughs took on a different timbre. They were dry and hoarse. She was coughing from the inflamation now, not trying to get rid of an obstruction.

Snape went immediately back to Hermione. He prized her jaw open and repeated the same procedure. Then, hoping for the best, he tried to revive her. She did not wake up, not even with multiple attempts. But when he checked her pulse, it was there, if faint. She was breathing now, too. That seemed all the reviving spell could do for her.

Snape felt a little hand at his sleeve. "You've gotta help Crookshanks too!" the little girl cried.

XOXOX

So he'd saved the cat, saved the girl, and managed to keep Hermione alive, but Snape was ever aware of the fact that the longer Hermione remained unconscious, the more likely it was for her to remain so. He'd run diagnostic spells and forced potions down her throat, but he was no Healer, and whatever had caused this reaction – giants' gas, as Elizabeth unblinkingly called it – was an unfamiliar substance. It had left a thin, but determinedly sticky yellowy residue on Elizabeth and Crookshank's skin. Simple (and complex) cleaning spells hadn't helped. He ended up brewing large quantities of a scouring potion to cleanse them of it, for it had begun to irritate their skin.

It had been no fun getting that damned cat clean. Crookshanks had hardly gone near Snape since.

It had been infinitely less fun cleaning Hermione, but Snape tried not to think about that. He'd had to send Elizabeth off with a damp, scowling Crookshanks to gather knotgrass while he sorted _that_ whole situation out.

His life had certainly changed since Hermione'd appeared. Even though it had really been a short time since the giant invasion, Snape felt as if he'd been living alone for years. Elizabeth was persistent company, always asking him where was Zachy, and when would Hermione wake up, and what was he doing, and why he was making that face, and why was his hair so shiny.

And Crookshanks had a strangely imposing presence for a cat. He would stare at Snape while Elizabeth asked these uncomfortable questions, amusedly, it seemed. Sometimes the cat would go in and curl up forlornly at Hermione's side, as if Snape could be any more acutely aware of the precarious position she was in.

But as full of responsibility and worry as his life had suddenly become, the giants were still continuing with _whatever_ it was they were doing. Snape had become aware of a change within the last day or two. There were more of them; many more. And they were a different sort, too, but he couldn't put his finger on what was happening, and he had to find out.

When the rabbit was finished to golden-brown perfection, he pulled it off the spittle, burning his fingers a bit, and placed it on the transfigured plate Elizabeth was holding out. It looked small. There never was enough rabbit, but engorging it ruined the texture completely. Elizabeth looked at it in eager anticipation, licking her lips greedily. She looked up at Snape when she realized he wasn't moving to carve off her piece. "What's wrong?"

"Elizabeth, you go ahead and finish that. I've got to run an errand."

"Can I go?" It was always the first thing she asked, even though two days experience had already taught her what the answer would be.

"No, I'm sorry." Snape did not want to leave her there, but the truth was it was more dangerous where he was headed.

Elizabeth, not completely unexpectedly, burst into tears. Snape sighed. She was one of the most sensitive children he'd ever dealt with.

"Stop crying," he commanded.

"I c-can't," she sobbed, her voice hitching unsteadily.

"You must. I need you to stay here with Hermione while I take care of something."

"Stay here by myself?"

"Yes," Snape said. "Just as you did yesterday, and earlier this morning."

"But I'm five!" Snape could have sworn under his breath, but for the risk of her demanding to know what he'd said and what it meant. For such a whinging little thing, she had an uncanny ability for finding his weak spots; it worried him sick to leave a five-year-old in charge of camp, but it had to be. The giants were expanding their camps, and Snape needed to make sure that the cave was in no danger of discovery.

"And you can use Hermione's wand if there's trouble. Your stunning spell is strong enough to protect you from most attackers. I will not be gone long."

"Take me with you," she pleaded.

"No. It's dangerous."

"Then don't go."

"I have to go," Snape said firmly, "but just for an hour or so. There's nothing to be worried about." He then strode several feet away from the fire and disapparated, promising to be back as soon as he could.

XOXOX

When he arrived back near the cave, Elizabeth came running toward him, her face screwed up tight. Snape experienced a sharp pang of fear at the sense that something had gone terribly wrong. "What is it?"

"Hermione!" Elizabeth said wildly, skidding into him and at once throwing her arms around his middle. "She was moving!"

"Well?" Snape pressed. "Did she wake?"

Elizabeth looked up at him. "No!" Tears started to form in her eyes. "She wouldn't wake up when I talked to her."

"Just," Snape unwrapped the little girl's arms from around him, "stay here," he said distractedly. He hurried the rest of the way up to the cave.

Snape crouched next to Hermione. He lit his wand and held it over her face. Although there was still some daylight, the cave was dark and allowed in little light. He passed the wand over her body quickly to see whether anything had changed. He settled the light back near her face. She looked pale under the glaring wandlight, and her eyelashes fluttered. Her hand twitched and reached up to rub at her face.

"Miss Granger, how are you feeling?" he asked loudly, shaking her shoulder a bit.

"Mmm…Harry?" she croaked, her eyes still shut against the glaring wand light.

"Miss Granger, can you remember what has happened?" Snape had been terribly curious about the rest of the wizarding world, and Elizabeth's limited perception and garbled version of events had only stoked that curiosity.

She frowned at his voice, looking confused. "Harry?" she asked, opening her eyes blearily.

"Don't worry about Potter now. What have you – "

Hermione's eyes opened wide at the word _Potter_. For just a moment, she stared at him in stunned surprise, but then, scrambling frantically, she clutched her blanket up to her chin and scooted back against the wall. "Where am I? _Where's Harry?"_

Snape frowned. "I certainly would not know."

She looked around the dark walls of the cave and panicked, cowering against the wall. Although in better times pleasant enough to look at, she had recently acquired a tense, pinched look, and it was amplified all the more by her catching up against the wall like some wild, cornered creature. "_Where am I?_ Where are Elizabeth, and Crookshanks?" she demanded.

"They survived your apparation very well. They are fine," Snape said briskly.

Her eyes skated around the cave's interior, searching desperately. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, on the edge of hysteria. "I don't understand," she managed, between hitching little gasps. "If they're all right, why aren't they here? Elizabeth's _five years old_. Are you just letting her run _wild?_ Is there anybody else here? Where did you come from, where have you been? And where's _Harry?_" Despair was creeping into her voice now, and though it was difficult to tell for sure in the dim cave, it looked as if tears had sprung to her eyes. "I thought I was going to find Harry. The spell was supposed to take me to the giant slayer. The giant slayer was supposed to be HARRY!"

Snape stood up abruptly. She hadn't changed a bit since he'd last seen her. She was just as annoying and ungrateful as ever. "Miss Granger, before you begin blaming me for not taking proper care of Elizabeth, and that cat, who are even now within my sight," and Elizabeth was indeed at the mouth of the cave, holding Crookshanks in her arms, "I suggest you remember that you were the one who deposited them at my feet."

Hermione's face grew red, either with anger or the memory of her appearance when she'd arrived with Elizabeth and Crookshanks.

"As for giant slaying," Snape continued, "the spell brought you to the correct person. Who knows what fool errand Potter is on, or whether he even survived this invasion." Hermione began to blink too frequently, trying to ward off tears, perhaps. "I'll send the others in," Snape said brusquely, and stepped outside before she could level any more unwarranted accusations.


	6. Chapter 6

_She couldn't breathe_.

That was what she remembered with the most clarity; the most urgency. She hadn't been able to breathe at all- at _all_. She had _died_, or at least that's what it had felt like. The terror, the hopelessness, the frantic longing for light and air; the final, bleak resignation… they were breaking around her like waves, even now, as she pulled in deep breath after overly deep breath, making herself giddy, unable to stop.

Her head was swimming, and the reason was far more complex than her desperate, rapid breathing alone. There was relief at being alive… a claustrophobic horror at finding herself back under the ground, even though she could see light streaming in through the mouth of the cave not far off… abject humiliation at the realization that it must have been Snape's feet at which she had landed, half-_naked_ and half-dead… confusion and disorientation and disappointment acute enough to border on despair as it finally, really sank in that she was under the care of her former professor- the traitorous bastard who had murdered Dumbledore and slunk off into the night with the rest of the Death Eaters who'd attacked Hogwarts- instead of her much loved and trusted friend.

_Harry. WHERE was Harry?_

Apparently, that question was destined to go unanswered for at least a while longer. But in the mean time here came Elizabeth, clutching Crookshanks- the cat fully half the size of the child- against her chest like an overgrown, ginger-furred, smash-faced teddy bear. And there was comfort in that. Undeniably, there was.

She held out her arms (she was clad, she realized, in what had to be one of Snape's own shirts; black, too large, surprisingly soft) to both of them- the child and the cat, all at once. It was a happy reunion; as happy as could be hoped for, at any rate, under such less-than-ideal circumstances. Both Elizabeth and Crookshanks appeared to be acceptably healthy and well-cared-for, at any rate, and there was no denying that, one way or another, Snape had managed to drag _her_ back from death's doorstep as well. Which was perplexing information, given everything else she knew about him… or thought she did.

It was food for thought, certainly. A whole lot of food for thought. A veritable feast.

Which reminded her, now she thought about it, that she was absolutely starving. How long had she been unconscious? How long without solid food? And before that, all those days upon days of scant, diluted rations at the Ministry. Her stomach actually cramped up at the thought of just how hungry she _was_; cramped up hard enough to cause her to fold herself over, wrapping her arms around herself, and to bring a little cry to her lips.

She mastered herself quickly though, for Elizabeth's sake. The girl seemed cheerful, but Hermione could tell that it was a skittery, nearly frantic sort of cheer. It was a mask, and a thin one, over… well, she wasn't exactly sure over what, and she _would_ get to the bottom of it, make no mistake, but she wasn't up to it just at the moment. For the moment, it was all she could do to compose _herself_, because she could tell that despite Elizabeth's brittle smile, the child was seconds away from bursting into tears at the merest hint of something wrong.

"How about you show me what there is to eat around here," Hermione managed, in a voice that barely shook at all, pasting on an over-large, fake smile of her own.

00000

Not quite steady on her feet, she followed Elizabeth out of the cave and into the fading light of early evening. There were trees almost up to the cave's mouth, but there was a very small sort of clearing immediately out front. There was a kind of makeshift camp kitchen set up here; a fire, over which was suspended a kettle, pot-bellied and black; a handful of other pans stacked neatly off to one side; a spit for roasting meat; a large, neat pile of firewood; a few transfigured dishes- plain, but serviceable- and even a sort of improvised table and chairs. Just three small stumps set around a larger, slightly higher one near the mouth of the cave, but still she had to admit that given what he'd had to work with, the area looked downright… domestic. In the mouth of the cave itself hung several bunches of drying herbs.

_He_ was crouching by the fire with his back to her as she approached, doing something with the kettle. Black clothes, black boots, black hair; tense, unhappy posture, tightly bunched muscles highlighted by the way his shirt stretched taut across his back, throwing his shoulder-blades into sharp relief. He _was_ sharp; angular; edgy in more ways than one.

He was also a mystery.

He had saved her life. Elizabeth's and Crookshanks' too. But he had stolen Dumbledore's away. He had betrayed all that was just and good, that night at the end of sixth year; had thrown in his lot with the Death Eaters.

So what was she supposed to believe about him now? Just what in Merlin's name was she supposed to _think?_

It was too much to wrap her mind around in her still-groggy state. It was making her head ache.

Her reverie was cut short in any event, as he stood abruptly and turned to face her. His dark eyes were flat as he raked them down her from head to foot; a quick, cursory once-over.

"You're up," he said, curtly, then jerked his head toward the kettle. "I'd offer you some tea-" his voice turned snide- "that is, if you can trust me not to have poisoned it."

"I don't know," she snapped irritably, "can I?" She was in no mood for this brand of verbal sparring. The line of his mouth thinned, if possible, even more. God, this headache was going to be a monster. She raised a hand to her temple and sank miserably onto the nearest stump-chair, pressing her eyes closed. She didn't want to have to puzzle over the dark enigma that was Severus Snape. She didn't want to be here at all. She wanted Ron. She wanted Harry. She wanted her parents. She wanted to wake _up_ and find that this had all been a nightmare, everything from that moment in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place on. She wanted to go _home_.

She felt tears threatening. But Elizabeth was watching. _He_ was watching. She fought them back savagely.

"No need to sulk, Miss Granger." His voice, slightly mocking, was nearly at her elbow. "The tea is perfectly sound. Why poison you now, after you've been completely at my mercy these last few days?" She heard a clinking sound and opened her eyes to find that he'd placed a steaming cup of liquid in front of her. Elizabeth had slid into a seat on the opposite side of the table-stump and was still regarding her keenly.

Hermione managed to force a tired, weak smile. "Thanks," she said quietly. In truth, the tea really did look inviting. She raised the cup in a hand that shook just the slightest bit; took a sip. It was without question the best thing she'd tasted since before the… the invasion.

Hearing a sound that distinctly resembled a disdainful snort, she glanced up to find him smirking at her, his dark eyes inscrutable. Before she could gather her wits sufficiently to say anything more he turned and stalked off into the cave, losing himself in shadow and leaving her alone with an uncharacteristically silent Elizabeth, a rapidly cooling cup of tea, a sun that was going down, a mind that was fit to burst with questions she completely lacked the energy to tackle, and a headache that was now beginning to threaten migraine proportions.

00000

It was dark and she was underground and it felt as if the walls were closing in on her and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, _couldn't breathe._

She woke in a panic, lathered in cold sweat and shaking, bolting upright from a nightmare reliving of her last few moments at the Ministry, only to find that her current situation was nearly identical.

It was dark and she was underground and she couldn't breathe. She was coughing again, just as she had in the Ministry; so it took her several seconds to fully grasp the fact that she was, indeed, awake and that this was really happening to her, right here and now.

They were deep, wrenching, hacking coughs that made her chest ache and her throat burn. From her sitting position, she wrenched herself around onto her hands and knees, her blankets tangling around her into a snarled, sweat-sticky mess. Dropping her head nearly to the cave floor, her whole body heaved with the painful coughs that were ripping through her.

_God, help, _she thought desperately, just as she had in the seconds following her frantic Apparition; _someone please_…_ can't breathe_… _I'm dying_…

And then _he _was there again. She couldn't see him; it was pitch black in the cave and her eyes were pressed shut anyway- but she could feel him; the sleep-heat radiating off his body, and she could hear him trying to speak to her over the sounds of her own coughing, and then he was gripping her fast by the upper arms, hauling her back into a sitting position, holding her hard against him, her back to his chest. She felt a hand pressed briefly to her throat, heard a quick incantation muttered, and the terrifying pressure, the _closure _of it eased off a bit. Then something- a flask- was being pressed to her lips.

"Drink if you can," he ordered her, in a voice that brooked no argument.

She gulped and spluttered. Whatever it was that he was offering her tasted foul… but immediately coated and soothed her burning throat. She went from mostly coughing with a few sporadic gasps thrown in to mostly gasping with a few coughs interspersed. A definite improvement… physically, at least. Her state of mind was a different story; still scattered, half-asleep and frantic.

She twisted around, again, until she was facing him; impulsively grabbed up fistfuls of his shirt, buried her face in it. Tried to get her breathing under control. She was beyond thinking through her actions at the moment. She just needed to be comforted… and there was no one else capable around.

There was a soft clunk as he placed the flask down beside them on the cave floor, and then she felt his hands come to rest on her shoulders. They might even have squeezed once, gently; a gesture that, had it come from Harry or Ron in that moment, would have been undeniably and beautifully comforting. The situation being what it was, however, it was merely perplexing and vaguely unsettling… if it was in fact real at all. Probably just a figment of her fevered imagination.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard; raised her head, if only marginally.

"I… I c-can't be underground right now," she managed to stutter out. "Please, you don't… understand. I have to get out. I need to see the sky. I need… I…" She dropped her head again, her forehead clunking against his collarbone. Her voice fell to a pathetic whisper. "_Please help me_."

He sighed and she thought she caught a word in it; the word _shit_, as a matter of fact. Then he was standing and pulling her up with him, steadying her on her feet. "Can you see your way to the entrance?" he asked, his voice low; directly in her ear. She could; a patch of darkness a short distance away that was not quite so complete as everywhere else; a faint suggestion of trees outlined against a star-studded sky. It reminded her suddenly, forcefully, of camping with her parents when she'd been a little girl; of how safe she'd felt, waking warm in her sleeping bag in the middle of the night, snug between their larger, peacefully slumbering forms, quietly unzipping the tent flap to lie awake awhile and stargaze. How simple the world had seemed when her age had been a single digit, long before she'd ever heard of Hogwarts, or the wizarding world.

Or Severus Snape, who killed some people and then saved others, apparently completely at random… if there was any method to his madness, she was nowhere near discovering it.

Or giants.

She fought back a new wave of tears brought on by the phantom of those long-ago family camping trips; forced her thoughts back to those that were her family now- or as good as.

"Where are Elizabeth and Crooks?" she asked suddenly, worried. "Surely they'd have heard… uhm… me."

"No," came that same quiet, steady voice. It would almost be pleasant- soothing in a way- if she could be sure it was trustworthy. But she could not. "I had an idea that your dreams might well be troubled tonight, so I enclosed Elizabeth in a soundproof bubble as soon as she fell asleep. The cat was curled up right beside her, so…" he trailed off and she thought she felt him shrug in the dark. Then, "well, come on outside if you must. I'll build up the fire."

"Yes, please," she said, absurdly grateful that he was offering to accompany her; she did not want to be alone just now. "I'll be there in a moment, only I want to check on them first."

He gave an exasperated huff. "If you check on them, Miss Granger, they will wake, and I would very much prefer them to remain asleep- that having been the entire point of the spell I performed, and all."

"I know," she said wretchedly, "I'm sorry. I just…"

"You have to see for yourself that I haven't horribly murdered them in their sleep." His voice was flat, inflectionless, and about a gazillion times worse than his exasperation of a moment ago. She felt a spasm of guilt; she was acting a complete ingrate and she knew it- but it passed. The fact was, she _didn't_ know if she could trust him, and that was through no fault of her own. She had always, _always_ respected him as a teacher, a scholar, an Order member. She might not have liked him, but she'd steadfastly defended him against Harry and Ron's accusations the entire way through school. She might not have liked him, but she'd _believed _in him… until that horrible, horrible night. And so her mistrust now was a direct result of _his_ actions, _his_ decisions. She felt her own irritation bubbling upward, rising.

"Well, you _are_ a murderer," she snapped. "Maybe you choose to forget the fact, though I can't imagine how. But _I_ can't forget it, and I never will."

She thought she sensed him stiffen in the dark, recoiling almost as though he'd been slapped; heard a sharp, hissing intake of breath. And then his footfalls crunching away from her, toward the cave's mouth, without another sound.

She felt a sudden, strong urge to go after him, but suppressed it. It played into that guilt thing again, and damn it, she wasn't going to buy _into_ it! She'd only spoken the truth, after all. Let him react as he would. She had more pressing concerns. Such as checking on Elizabeth and Crookshanks. Her responsibilities.

Gritting her teeth, she whirled away from him, angry, frustrated, confused- forgetting, in the process, the heavy, tangled mass of blankets that clung to her legs, twining around them nearly all the way up to her hips.

An instant later she was falling, hard.

Her startled cry was answered by an explosive round of curses from behind her just as she hit the stone floor, white-hot pain lancing simultaneously through her right temple and wrist. Her wrist was broken; she knew it with an immediate and absolute certainty even as sparks danced across her vision. She blinked hard; tried to push herself up; failed. Clamped down on another cry as more pain blazed through her head and hand. She couldn't believe she'd _fallen_ like that; how much more stupid, more clumsy, more completely worthless could she _be? _Merlin. Lights were still dancing in front of her eyes. Her head was spinning. And there were tears again. Of pain? Frustration? Complete and utter mortification? No one had seen her fall- but _he _had heard her, make no mistake. God, how humiliating. And then-

"Ah- _UNGH!_" she protested as he yanked her over and into a sitting position, simultaneously snarling,

"_Lumos!_"

The light was blinding; she slammed her eyes shut, a whimper escaping her despite her best effort to hold it in check. Her good hand flew up to shield her eyes further, grazing her temple in the process. It flared with pain and she hissed a sharp breath in through her teeth. Snape, still steadily swearing a blue streak, thrust her, none too gently, against the wall, leaving her propped in a sitting position with his glowing wand beside her, barking out something about going for his first aid kit.

Kicking weakly at the wretched, traitorous blankets, she watched him stalk away; a study in suppressed fury and, she thought, disgust. Her vision was beginning to waver, and she lowered her hand slowly from her head, registering, as she did so, that it came away from her temple sticky and wet. Holding it in front her face, she blinked dazedly at the red that coated her fingertips, trying to make sense of it, without success.

Her vision was narrowing, now, down to a tunnel; all she could see were the blood-coated tips of her fingers. All she could hear was her own harsh, uneven breathing, the sound rushing like wind in her ears- and then faintly, very, very distantly, a strange, high keening. Her head was swimming now, but she forced herself to look up, searching for the source of that sound- and saw, across the cave, Elizabeth sitting straight up in her little nest of blankets, her fair hair staticky and wild, eyes huge and dark in the dim light, looking back at her and screaming hysterically on and on and _on_; her tiny, vulnerable face a textbook picture of sheer childhood panic.

Of course- the light must have roused her; Snape had shielded her from sound, not from light. And she'd woken to… to _this_. Sweet Merlin, hadn't that child already been through enough? Would the horror ever end for her? For any of them?

_No_, Hermione tried to say, _no Elizabeth, sweetheart, don't._ But she couldn't seem to make the words come. She couldn't seem to make any part of her do anything anymore and Elizabeth was screaming and Snape was gone Merlin knew where, she didn't think he was in the cave at all anymore, and… God… she was woozy, just really, _really_ tired and then she was sliding sideways down the rough, craggy stone wall, hitting the floor in a crumpled heap with her hair falling across her face and the light from Snape's wand pulsing now, it seemed, in time with her heart, and she thought she saw, maybe, as if through a thickly settling fog, a pair of booted feet returning to her at a run, but her eyes were dragging themselves closed now, she couldn't stop them and honestly, she didn't even want to anymore. Her arm hurt and her head hurt and everything was all wrong, the _world_ was all wrong and she just- wanted- it all to go away.

So when the darkness and silence swept over her in a wave she offered no more resistance than a few drowsy, half-hearted blinks before finally allowing her eyes to fall shut, and the gentle, dark current to carry her away.

XOXOXOXOX

A/N: I suck! I know! It's been like nine freaking months! I could almost have had a baby! I'm sorry I'm sorry… hope there's still a handful of readers out there who haven't completely given up on this story. And then when I do update, I can't stop myself from heaping more and more abuse on Hermione… well then again, anyone who's ever read anything I've written knows that I can _never_ stop myself from heaping abuse on Hermione. The more I like a character, the more she shall suffer- that's just the way it goes. Anyway, it's all yours Alex… have fun:o)


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